I try to post something about vampire folklore, and it fails to come to fruition through no fault of my own. Again and again, it gets “blocked.” Then something happens, and that becomes the next post. Now I’m sure at some point I will post on folklore and history, but for now, we’re delving into Angst, Anger & Appreciation.
About a month ago, my beloved English Cream Golden Retriever “Olaf” was diagnosed with nose cancer that had entered the front of his brain. He didn’t act any differently. The only sign we had was blood-tinged snot. The doctor prescribed some meds and told us we would know “when it was time,” and gave us one to six months with him. The night of Tuesday, June 23, the timeline ran out at one month and two days.
Turning off the TV to head to bed, I called to my fur baby that it was bedtime. I glanced over at him on his bed. Shock filled my chest. He didn’t get up, but looked at me with concern. His bed cover was soaked in blood.
We’d had similar incidents before, if not as bad. I jumped up, grabbing paper towels to clean him and the floor. The bleeding stopped. My husband gave him a couple snacks and “BAM” the bleeding restarted at a regular drip. I knew this was the end.
Emergency medical care for animals at eleven pm does not exist in the Verde Valley. Our only options were Flagstaff or Prescott Valley, both over an hour away. At the rate of bleeding, I worried he would bleed out.
What do you do when you’re in the rurals? You deal with a lot on your own. But we didn’t think we could do this. So we called the local police, begging for help. The dispatcher turned my husband away. He’d called 911 so I turned around and called the department directly. And got the same person.
The dispatcher conferred with the sergeant and then politely told me it was against the law for them to help us. When I begged and pleaded, I was put through to an officer. Same answer. In my anger and angst, I asked if we could discharge a weapon inside the city. That was a firm no for the city and the county. Which had I been in my right mind, I’d have known — we’re under fire restrictions, with the Pocket fire burning uncontrolled in the mountains nearby.
So, we lined the Jeep with shipping blankets and I sat in the back with Olaf, trying my best to keep him from sneezing blood everywhere. On the hour-plus trip to Prescott Valley, I failed miserably at that task. We arrived with my dog, the blankets, the car upholstery and me covered in doggie blood.
I won’t lie, I had some choice thoughts and a storm of emotion over the lack of help in a time of desperation and need. The lawmakers and our remote location had made “no” the only answer the department could give us. An answer that pushed me past logic, past reason, to raw emotion.
Protect and serve? “Ha!” is the nice version of my reaction. On the long drive to the animal hospital I had thoughts of dropping pictures of the scene, of me and the dog on the department’s doorstep. Of contacting any legislator that would listen and maybe pen an amendment whereby animal control or officers can help.
This all faded as time passed and we arrived at Yavapai Emergency Animal Hospital in Prescott Valley. They took my baby in the back to be checked, dealt gently with a fur mom losing her mind, directed us to “the room,” and offered me the bathroom to clean up.
In time they brought Olaf to us. I lay down next to him, hugged him, and said goodbye. And then, he was gone.
If you’ve read my release day post or the book, you know I believe the universe, source, God — whatever you feel comfortable calling that intelligence — gives us help and support through messages. For me, that’s by animals.
The ride home was quiet, my husband and I lost in the numb haze of hurt. Then ahead of us a cottontail sat on the highway next to what looked like a dead animal and just stared at us. Only at the last minute did it hop away. Shortly thereafter, a large owl flew across the road directly in front of the car. Both things that don’t happen regularly.
The next day we went to a place along the Oak Creek where we’d taken both dogs. Both now gone. I sat waterside, my feet in the water, took out some natural loose tobacco and blew into it for each of us and started to talk to spirit and my guides. I asked for safe passage for my dog. I asked for help coping. I asked not for the pain to be taken from me, but for me to be able to process it.
I rose and walked into the water, stood there in the peace and beauty. Slowly I rubbed my hands together and let the tobacco scatter. When I looked upriver, I saw sunlight reflecting on the water in the pattern of three more animals: ewe, zebra, and phoenix.
So then, let’s take a look at the animal signs that came this time.
Cottontail: trusting intuition, rapid growth, gentleness as strength, facing fear, cycles of rebirth.
Owl: seeing what others cannot, looking beyond illusion to underlying truth, heightened intuition/perception, silent observation before action, comfort with darkness of unknown, transitions.
Ewe: maternal care, quiet strength, patience and gentleness, trust, emotional safety, compassion requires courage.
Zebra: light and shadow, black and white exist in paradox, the path is uniquely yours, stand without apology, strength in independence and interdependence. Truth often exists in the tension and shadowy liminal areas.
Phoenix: allow the old identity to end, rise stronger after the suffering, purification after fire, spiritual awakening, becoming who you’re meant to be. Complete transformation.
Cottontail captured that first sight of Olaf all bloody, and my reaction — handling the bleeding with gentleness, the intuitive knowing that this was the end. But “end” is not the right word, for death is as much an end as it is a beginning, such is its liminal nature.
As for Owl, I can take that very literally for I do see what others do not. Not as solid figures, but as flashes and glimpses beyond the veil, sometimes whole, sometimes part. And it’s not just me, as my husband heard the “nail clicks on our wood floor” as well when we arrived home. Those familiar sounds of Olaf moving around have continued, slowly fading over the past week.
Ewe is a comfort against my constantly berating myself with “did I do enough for him,” “did he know I loved him,” and “was it the right decision.” Sitting with him for over an hour in his blood and being covered in it by the end of the trip and going through the euthanizing questions, I tell you, took courage and compassion.
Zebra’s black and white could, in some small part, represent our call to local police, as well as the light and shadow of death’s liminal space. Never mind the plain fact of writing this, of letting the world know and standing in my uniqueness without apology. There was certainly truth in all of these.
Phoenix, again, provides a liminal representation of ending and new beginnings born from turmoil. A fitting final message for the transition we were going through as we moved forward with a life without Olaf. And my moving forward with a new career in writing and another in embracing my gifts as a psychopomp.
Together these animals make for a powerful message. I was to: move through a significant life transition by trusting my inner guidance, acting from compassion, remaining true to myself, and allowing necessary change to reshape me.
I came into this world a child of the liminal, born on a night when the veil all but disappears. Born with one foot in this world and the other in the next. And through that connection and a growing deeper understanding of the nature of liminal spaces and times, I find myself even more drawn to vampires and what they represent for humanity and this temporary version of reality. And so, yet another story is born and put on the list for writing when I complete the Ravens Hollow series.
I invite you to stick around and walk with me through the various forms the shadows will take.
Postscript: Circling back after the whole experience, my anger at the local police department is gone. In its place exists a strong appreciation for them having to say no. And an appreciation for the extra time I had with Olaf because of the long drive to get help. This was how it was meant to be. This was what allowed me to have extra time with him and the gentle crossing he deserved with us at his side.
Post-postscript: Finishing the edit on this article today, I got the call I both wanted and dreaded — Olaf was ready to come home. His ashes, his paw print, a clipping of his hair.
